Summary: Dean takes his first steps into the 22nd century with his very own P.A.L., the most sophisticated robot on the market. One programming muddle later, he finds himself stuck with a contrary, stiff robot who doesn't quite know how to act human.

x

This was all Sam’s fault.

Dean cursed as he ripped open the shrink-wrapped manual, thumbing it open. The instruction manual for P.A.L.! Programmable Artificial Life was at least a hundred pages thick and looked complicated enough to launch a space shuttle. Great. A hundred pages of all the fun things you can do with your P.A.L.! and they didn’t even tell you how to turn the fucking thing on.

He glanced up at the metal box, where his P.A.L.! stood impassively. Robots were all the rage these days—original conceived as household objects, people now clamored for robots that could, well, be people. They weren’t actual people, of course, but the artificial intelligence was sufficient enough to mimic humanity. The idea was vehemently rejected by just about every church around the world (and several governments), but the things were flying off the shelves. Robots creeped the shit out of Dean, though—how could a hunk of plastiskin and metal pass for an actual person, anyway? Even if they were individually customized, it was still weird as hell.

“Fuck you, Sam,” he growled. Sam and his gadgets. Sam had already bought his own P.A.L.! as he was a massive girl and needed someone to trade hair tips with. Two, actually, though not at the same time: they were both named Ruby and apparently had the same memory chip, but radically different looks. Sam had redesigned his bot somewhere along the road.

It’s not the end of the world, Sam had said when Dean learned of the purchase. Sam was making Bitchface #5, or, “My Brother is Stuck in the 21st Century and Won’t Grow Up, Oh, What’s a Sasquatch to Do.” This is their latest model, and it’s about time you caught up to the real world, anyway.

“Well, up yours, Sammy,” Dean muttered.

Still, Sammy had picked well. The features of every P.A.L.! was unique. That was one of their major selling points, the idea of being able to create your own perfect companion that was yours alone. This particular model was a male and had mussy black hair and some of the bluest eyes Dean had ever seen. He was dressed in a standard tee and jeans, but Dean knew from Sam’s enthusiastic descriptions that the figure underneath was perfectly proportioned, had flawless skin, etc. People didn’t pay big bucks for love handles, after all.

He was expecting it, sort of, but he couldn’t help but jump away when the P.A.L.! blinked. Once. Twice. Dean found himself holding his breath as the robot went through a series of quick diagnostics, the metal bracelet around his wrist flashing through a series of colors. Finally, he looked around the room and focused on Dean.

“Hi,” Dean said stupidly, waving a hand.

“Hello, Dean!” the robot said in a cheery, chipper voice. “As a friendly robot who’s intelligent and eager, I’m looking forward to being your P.A.L.!”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Is there something wrong, Dean?” the robot asked, beaming. “I’m so happy to be here today. Would you care to name me?”

“Whatever you like, Dean!” the robot said happily. Dean grimaced. “That’s okay, you can take as long as you need! Remember, as your P.A.L.! , I’m a friendly—”

“Okay, that is it. Shut up,” Dean said as he flipped through the manual, looking for something along the lines of “turn off” or “stop sounding like you’re a walking advertisement.” He didn’t find it.

“Or maybe you’d like to play a game?”

“No! No games!”

The robot tilted his head and gave another wide, cheery smile. Presumably, it was meant to be heartwarming. “Okay!” he said. “Remember, I’m your—”

“Right, right…SHUT UP!” Dean said. “You…stay here, okay? I need to…I need to ask someone something. Actually, I need to strangle Sam, but I can’t do that over the phone.”

“Take as long as you want, Dean!” the robot declared. “I’ll be here waiting for you!”

“Uh,” Dean said as he backed out of the room and closed the door on the dazzling smile. Obviously, these robots were meant to serve people as personal companions, but that was taking it way too far in Dean’s humble opinion. No normal mouth was meant to smile like that, he was sure.

Dean scowled as he picked up the phone to call Sam. Okay, the plan: he was going to rant at Sam until he felt better, then he was going to return the robot back to the shop. The thing was freaking him out, big-time.

“Hello?”

Dean gave an inward sigh. Ruby. “Hi, Ruby,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth. “Listen, is Sam there?”

“He’s just about to head out,” Ruby said. “What’s up, Dean?”

“Just give him the phone.”

“Gee, aren’t you a ray of sunshine. Sam!” There was a click.

“Hey, Dean,” Sam said. “Look, not that I don’t appreciate you calling, but I’ve got a case in court today—”

“The robot came today,” Dean interrupted.

“Oooh!” Sam said, instantly eager. “And how was it? It was amazing, right? I mean, these models are top of the line and…you’re not saying anything. It wasn’t amazing, huh?”

“…not really. No. Sam, I swear, that thing is smiling so hard it’s going to pick up a butcher knife and come after me in my sleep. And I know that doesn’t make sense, but hell, these robots—they’re creepy, man!”

“Did you program it?”

“Program?” Dean demanded.

“Yeah, Dean, that’s what the manual is for,” Sam said. “The default personality is kind of weird, I’ll admit, but that’s why you have to program it for the personality you want.”

“What the—why the hell is that?”

Sam gave a great gusty sigh that echoed through the phone. “Look, Dean, I’m going to be late. It’s all in the manual, okay?”

“Bitch,” Dean muttered. “Fine. Go to court. I’ll figure this out by myself.”

“Jerk,” Sam returned. There was a brief hesitation, and then he gave another one of those huge, martyred sighs. “Look, call me if there’s any major problems, okay? These models are Three Laws safe, but you’re supposed to enjoy this, Dean. If you really don’t want the bot, I’ll return it.”

Damn Sammy and the way he could make Dean feel guilty just by a few sentences. “Fine,” Dean muttered ungraciously. He paused, made a face at the wall, then said, “Thanks, Sam. I mean—even if I, uh, I—”

“Got it,” Sam said dryly. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yep,” Dean said, and then he was listening to a dial tone.

Okay. Fine. They wanted him to read the manual; he’d read the damn manual. Dean turned to the front page and scanned the table of contents. Programming…ah. Page 31: How to Program Your P.A.L.!

Dean was getting really, really sick of that word.

X

Twenty minutes later, Dean had gotten absolutely nowhere.

The manual touted a “user-friendly interface!”, but as far as Dean could tell, it consisted of the bot spouting useless information at random intervals. The robot’s control center was the metal bracelet fixed to its wrist, but the tiny glowing buttons provided no information whatsoever.

“I feel like my mood is better than ever!” the robot announced as Dean jabbed a blue button. “This is lots of fun, Dean!”

Dean groaned as he mashed the red button underneath it and pulled the green slider all the way to the right. According to the manual, this was a series of steps that would bring up the robot’s patience monitor, but he was probably two or three steps behind, or even going in the wrong direction entirely. Dean looked hopefully up at the robot, who beamed back him idiotically. “Thanks for choosing me as your P.A.L.! , Dean!” it said cheerily. “Remember, I’m—”

Dean cursed, tossed the manual aside, and started pushing things at random. He’d do anything to get that smug grin off, really. “SHUT. UP. Okay,” he said. “Let’s do this the hard way then. Programming by random chance. Worst comes to worst, I’ll send you back to the factory for a reset.”

The robot remained silent. Dean continued to press buttons for a few minutes more until he finally settled back on his haunches and pressed the big red button. “Do you wish to confirm these settings?” the robot chirped. “Please note that these changes cannot be made without a factory reset!”

Dean paused. “Sure, why not.” He pressed the button again.

“Settings confirmed. Reconfiguring…”

There was a whir and a click. Then, in a much deeper voice, the robot said, “Configuration complete.”

Dean jumped a little at the sound. The voice was rougher, more gravelly than the annoying tenor chirp—it would’ve gone straight to Dean’s groin, if it weren’t for the fact that he really wasn’t into having sex with a bot, for god’s sake. He preferred his conquests to be real and living. Still, there was a certain appeal to it.

“So, hey,” Dean said, and waited for a response. If he heard another “Thanks for choosing me as your P.A.L.!”, he was going to take a sledgehammer to the thing.

Instead, the robot tilted his head and regarded him with a steady blue gaze. “I have not been named yet,” he said in that same low voice. “A name is required before we continue.”

Dean blinked. In between “programming,” he hadn’t really thought about it. “I don’t know,” he said blankly. “Isn’t there a default list or something?”

Dean mulled the name over for a moment. Castiel. The guys who configured the bots at the factory evidently had no lack of imagination, because what the hell kind of name was Castiel? But hey, it was better than Joe, which was his other idea. “Okay, then, buddy. You’re Castiel,” he decided. “There. That wasn’t too hard, was it?” he added, slapping Castiel across the back.

“We could have encountered many more difficulties, yes,” Castiel said carefully.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “What mode did I set you on? You don’t have to chew every word before it comes out, dude.”

“I will refrain from doing so in the future. Now tell me about yourself, Dean Winchester.”

Dean laughed a little at the imperious tone in the robot—no, Castiel’s voice. “Aren’t robots supposed to serve? What’s with the bossy tone?”

“I cannot fulfill my purpose if I do not understand my subject. Now—describe yourself,” Castiel said, and yeah, there was definitely a pissy note in his voice.

“Hey, take it easy,” Dean said, raising his hands in surrender. “Where do you want me to begin?”

“With wherever you feel is appropriate,” Castiel said, continuing to stare. It was a little disconcerting, really: didn’t he need to blink? Robots were supposed to be as realistic as possible, right?

Apparently not.

“Okay, first thing about me,” Dean said finally. “Personal space. I need it. I need it like air, really. That means you can’t sit within three inches of me and breathe into my face, okay?”

Castiel seemed to ponder this for a moment before drawing a few inches back. “My apologies,” he said gravely. “I will remember that you humans require space next time.”

You humans. Interesting. Obviously, robots weren’t humans and they knew it, but it felt a bit strange to have the thought voiced so baldly out loud. “Okay, that’s enough of the getting-to-know-you bit for now,” Dean announced.

“Very well,” Castiel said, though he sounded rather disapproving. “I would like to know what my duties are, then. I prefer to have a purpose.”

“Duties?” Dean drew a blank for a moment. “Christ, I don’t know. I guess you could do my laundry or something. Buying you was Sam’s idea, not mine. Or, hey—can you cook?”

“I have within my database over a million recipes,” Castiel said, sounding distinctly lofty.

Dean felt his lips quirk up despite himself. “That doesn’t mean you can cook,” he pointed out. “I may be a grumpy bachelor, but I can scramble eggs like nobody’s business.”

“I believe I can easily outscramble you,” Castiel said, and Dean had to laugh at that. “With my eyes closed,” he added, still perfectly serious.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be,” Dean said with a grin. “Mano a mano. Fine, I’ll let you prove it tonight. Whip up something for dinner and I’ll be the judge.”

“Dinner,” Castiel said, as if tasting the word delicately. “Noun, the main meal of a day, often eaten in the evening.” He paused. “It is not dinnertime yet, at least not how it is conventionally defined.”

“Well, no,” Dean admitted, looking at the clock: 12:05. “This is more lunchtime, really, but I don’t eat lunch.”

“Do you have a career?” Castiel inquired. “Humans should have careers so they may contribute to society.”

Castiel looked back at him severely. “You programmed me for freedom of speech. If you want to reset it, you’ll have to send me back to the factory.”

“Oh. Right.” Dean rubbed the back of his neck ruefully. “That’s what I get for not reading that brick of a manual. To answer your question, yeah, I have a job. I work construction. Not exactly the glitz of a law firm, but I get by.”

“Self-deprecation is often used to hide shame,” Castiel observed.

Dean gave him a dirty look. “Did I hit the ‘tactless’ button while I was at it? Look, I’m not ashamed. It’s a job, I do it well, and well, I never was cut out for school anyway.”

“You did not go to college?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “That’s Sam department,” he added, unable to keep the pride from his voice. “Sam’s working in some law firm now; he passed the bar exam two or three years ago.”

“Sam is your…brother?”

“Yep. He’s the one who bought you, actually, remind me to get him back for that some day.”

“I’ll make a note of it in your calendar,” Castiel said.

Dean snorted. “Cute. Look, I’ll be straight with you, okay? I’m, uh…getting a robot wasn’t my idea. And I don’t know shit about how you guys work or if you need your oil changed or whatever. But basically, I’m a pretty low-key guy and I’m, uh, not really sure what to do.”

“Right. Well, uh, I have to go to work. I’ve got the evening shift today, so I’m not going to be back till, I don’t know, eight.” Dean stood up and stretched a few kinds out of his spine before looking curiously at Castiel. “Do you…hell, I don’t know. Do you get bored? Do you want a book or something?”

Castiel looked thoughtful for a moment, and Dean gave a small groan at his own stupidity. Of all the dumb questions to ask…robots didn’t get bored. They were supposed to serve you, not the other way around.

“I would appreciate it,” Castiel said finally. Dean glanced at him quickly, and he continued, “I would like to learn more about your taste in literature in the process.”

Well. Dean gave a small shrug at that line of reasoning. He picked out Slaughterhouse Five and handed it to Castiel before he left, wondering vaguely just how long it would take a robot to finish it. If they were working at full capacity—roughly two nanoseconds. For a robot designed to be a human’s companion? Who knew?

X

He came home to pie.

“Dude!” Dean cried as the scent of apple pie wafted over to tease his nose. “Fresh out of the oven, too,” he observed as he tried to pick up a piece and burned his fingers. He looked up to see Castiel, who was standing stiffly in the kitchen and managed to give the impression of an impassive statue, albeit one that was holding a spatula. “How’d you know I liked pie?”

“Your brother told me,” Castiel said.

“Sam? Sam called?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. He laid down the spatula carefully and crossed his arms. “I do believe I have out-cooked you.”

“Wait, you don’t win that fast. I have to taste the thing first. But before that, I’m going to call Sam. Wait a sec.” Dean pulled out his smartphone, turned it on and saw that Sam had called him twice—no doubt asking whether or not he’d destroyed Castiel yet. Dean rolled his eyes as he hit the dial button. “Sam?” he said when Sam picked up.

“Dean!” Sam said. The background was filled with the sound of raucous cheers and the clinking of glasses: a bar of some sort. Dean raised an eyebrow. “How’s Castiel treating you?”

“Fine. What’re you celebrating?”

“We wrapped up a case today, so me and the guys are going to get dead drunk. You want to tag along? Ruby’s with me; you can bring Castiel and give him a test run.”

Dean shuddered. “Ugh, I did not need that visual, Sammy,” he said. “You picked a pretty face, yeah, but I’m not sure I really want to do it with a robot.”

“You’re such a prude,” Sam remarked. “I meant socially. Socially! He sounded really awkward when I called him; I never knew you were into the geeky shy type.”

“I’m not,” Dean said. “I couldn’t figure how to work it, so I just programmed it randomly.”

Sam’s laughter echoed over the phone. “Seriously? That kind of defeats the point of having a robot in the first place. You’re supposed to pick and choose, otherwise it’s like talking to a human.”

“Well, you know me, I love surprises,” Dean said dryly. “Besides, what’s wrong with good old homo sapiens? Me and Cas, we work fine. He made pie, by the way.”

“Cas? I thought it was Castiel.”

“Cas is less of a mouthful. And before you ask, it was the default name and I had no idea what else to call it. I was going to name it Sam, but then I figured that there’s already too much of Sam in this world and we don’t need another one.”

“Hey, you know you’d miss me if I was gone,” Sam said. There was a yell from the background, and Sam’s voice was muffled for a few minute before he came back. “Hey Dean, I gotta go. Take care, okay?”

“Yep,” Dean said. “See you, Sammy.” He hung up and shook his head for a moment before heading back to the kitchen, where Castiel was meticulously setting the dining room table. Only one place, Dean noticed. “You guys don’t eat?” Dean asked.

“Nominally, yes. But I felt it would be inappropriate.” Castiel did not look up as he spoke.

“Really? None of the bots at the construction site eat actual food. My boss bitches constantly about the oil expenditure, though.”

“I am not a construction robot,” Castiel said.

There was a distinct note of—pride?—in his voice. Or not pride, exactly, more like…righteousness. Which was weird to hear in any context, but especially out of place for a bot. “Okay,” Dean said slowly. “So you’re a personalized companion bot.” He paused. “You do know that half of them—hell, make that the vast majority—of personal bots are used for sex, right? I wouldn’t say that’s better than digging holes, but it’s the way of the world.”

“We may have sexual contact anytime you desire,” Castiel said calmly. “One, however, does not have sex with bulldozers.”

Castiel looked up from the table and gave Dean a cool gaze that paradoxically sent a rush of heat down Dean’s spine. “No,” Castiel said in a tone of calm finality. “Just different.”

Dean scrubbed his face with his palm. “Well,” he said after a moment, “you’re supposed to be a FRIEND, right, capital letters and all? It’d be a shame to make you eat in the corner. I mean, not that you should be eating in corners anyway, but you know what I mean. Go on, set another place.”

It took a few more minutes, but at the end of it all, Dean’s crappy dining room table was almost collapsing from the weight of all the dishes on it. Castiel had taken the dare seriously (did he know how not to take things seriously?), evidently, and some of the stuff looked like it belonged in a restaurant, not here in Dean’s lousy aparent.

Dean swallowed a bite of tender steak and looked up to see that Castiel was examining a chunk of carrot like it was the most fascinating thing in the universe. Dean waited, but Castiel didn’t any move to actually put it in his mouth and, well, eat it. “Go on,” Dean said, gesturing. “It’s not going to kill you.”

“I am not worried about death by carrot,” Castiel said primly, but he didn’t move. “I am perfectly capable of functioning on solar energy alone.”

“Solar energy’s for wimps,” Dean said, biting into his own carrots. They were good—better than good, actually, since Cas had managed to use some sauce or whatever to spice them up. “Maybe we should’ve started you out on baby formula or something,” he said after a moment. “Or toast. Bland toast.”

Castiel looked at him, evidently piqued by this comment if the smoldering in his eyes was anything to go by. “I do not require infant mush,” he said, and popped the carrot into his mouth. “I—” he broke off, looking a little flustered.

“Yeah, beats the taste of solar batteries and machine oil, doesn’t it,” Dean said as Castiel swallowed. “Here, now try the steak,” he added, cutting a piece of steak and holding the laden fork out for Castiel to sample. “I’ll even admit that it’s better than my home cooking, if you do the same thing tomorrow.”

“Steak?” Castiel said confusedly. “There isn’t any more beef in the refrigerator.”

“Well, steak for breakfast’s a bit rich for my taste, but we can head out tomorrow to the grocery before my shift starts if you want.” Dean watched with satisfaction as Castiel delicately nibbled at the bite of steak. “If you’re going to be cooking full-time, I guess you should pick out the groceries.”

I had a big grin on my face while reading this, especially when Dean's random programming turned out the Castiel we know and love. Hee. And a Castiel bound by the Three Laws appeals to me a lot. I'm looking forward to the nextpart!